With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. . There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. . ‘What are you after this time, miss?’ asked Jack. “No, John, you won’t understand. " "That's the way it goes. "In the hall," replied Charcam. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. CHAPTER X. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated.
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